Different Perspective
by cabintardlock
Summary: As Sherlock and John go through their stag night, many different people see them in many different ways. Some see them as a couple, some see them as a groom and his best man, and some see them as complete SOBs. Angsty Johnlock in the end, but plenty of humor before that!


_First Bar_

He sneered boorishly at the couple occupying the table near him. Two guys together like that just grossed him out. And the way they never even touched more than the occasional shoulder bump yet they were so obviously together. From his spot at the bar, he could practically _feel_ the bloody chemistry. Ugh.

The taller of the two was wearing a ridiculously posh coat that matched just perfectly with his absurdly posh curls. How does hair like that even happen? On his left, nursing what looked like a weirdly shaped beaker full of beer, was his...partner? Boyfriend? He really didn't know what they wanted to call themselves nowadays.

The other guy just looked like a normal bloke though, more on the short side with greyish blond hair. He was even wearing a bizarrely regular outfit compared to his...other. Just goes to show, you can never tell where you'll find _them_ nowadays.

They were totally unbelievable though. Both kept on stealing glances at each other and then looking away quickly, as if they were going to get caught. Absolutely everyone in the whole bar knew they were together, it was completely blatant, there was nothing to "catch" them for. The sexual tension was nearly fucking tangible, they were obviously going to go home and shag like rabbits. Their little "will they, won't they" shit was proving to be really annoying.

Draining his glass in one go, he turned to his friend, tearing his eyes away from the extremely irritating twosome.

"Hey, Devon, check out those queers at the table near the door. Don't they just piss you off?" he said, nodding in their direction.

"Hmm, I don't know. I'm kind of envious of them actually. You know, maybe you should try looking at things from a different perspective. Isn't that what Jessica said when she dumped you, that you were too 'narrow-minded and judgmental'?" Devon said, glancing at the couple, smile playing on his lips.

"No, she called me bigoted and pigheaded." he grumbled, exhaling heavily and staring at the bottom of his glass. Quickly becoming lost in thoughts of Jessica, he sighed again and signaled for another drink.

* * *

><p>Devon fell silent as his friend ordered another drink. In the back of his mind, he wondered how many drinks that was now, but he pushed that thought away. He was busy watching the two men his (now quite drunk) friend pointed out.<p>

They seemed like the kind of couple that wouldn't be very publicly demonstrative, if their lack of physical contact was any indicator. Both of them still seemed so comfortable with each other, and the fleeting glances they exchanged said everything. It was as if they were the only two in each other's world, and it was sweet in a strange way. Devon couldn't help but wish that someday someone loved him that much.

Still, he felt like there was something different about this pair. They glanced away from each other far too quickly, almost as if they were afraid of what would happen if they held eye contact for too long. As if something would happen that they could never take back if the "you are my everything" look extended past a couple seconds.

When they looked away from each other, the blond man had a strange look on his face, almost as if he was guilty, and just a tad resigned. The taller man on the other hand, for just a split second when the blond man's face was turned away, looked almost heartbroken. The intensity of his gaze was outstanding, and in that one second when he let his guard down, it was almost as if he was saying "I love you so much, and even if you can't see it, I would die for you."

Really studying them, Devon felt like they weren't actually a couple. They were two people that seemed like they were indubitably in love, yet they couldn't be together. No matter their chemistry, every smile and laugh was laced with sadness and regret.

Then again, Devon was probably reading far too much into the pair. He had a tendency to do that after a few pints.

* * *

><p><em>Another Bar<em>

As Karl watched the two men stumble in through the bar's doors, he could immediately tell the type. Stag do, the kind (sadly) without strippers, with just the two of them. In his experience as a bartender, Karl had learned quite a bit from watching the various patrons, and the stag parties were definitely the most educational and admittedly entertaining.

They seemed very comfortable around each other, like they'd been best friends for years. There was something about the pair that seemed slightly different than most of the "last hurrahs" that Karl saw passing through though, but he just couldn't put his finger on what exactly it was.

Of course, the obvious distinction was that the shorter of the two, definitely the groom, ordered drinks, and a couple shot, to fill up two graduated cylinders. Still, although that was strange and a pain in the arse to ring up, that didn't seem to be quite it.

Maybe it was the way the groom looked at his friend with a strange kind of awe in his eyes, as if he were the most brilliant thing in the world. Maybe it was the way the best man only looked up from his ridiculously complicated looking calculations whenever the groom cracked a smile.

As Karl's thoughts wandered, tolerated by the seldom lull in shouting customers, they inevitably ended up in the one place they always seemed to go. Rough fingers rubbing the ring in his own pocket, he felt the irrational desire to go up to that man and warn him, tell him that the blushing bride isn't always what you think. He wanted to ask him if he really trusts the woman he's marrying. Ask him if he's sure his perfect marriage wouldn't end up like Karl's, broken and still like a fresh wound. Everytime his musings strayed to this line of thought, he had to forcibly remind himself that not every relationship lacked so horribly in trust as his evidently did.

After all, this groom's fiancée was surely not hiding anything from him.

* * *

><p><em>Yet Another <em>_Pub_

"Yeah, I only really smoke cigars." Steve said, smiling at the woman (Stacey? Stella? Stan? he really couldn't remember) next to him. It was, of course, a lie, but menthol cigarettes were definitely less manly. After all, the babe was drinking straight whiskey.

"No, no, don't believe him he's lying! He's a liar! He smokes menthols!" a slurred voice shouted.

Steve jerked around with wide eyes and saw an extremely drunk guy waving his hand around at him. He was narrowing his eyes at Steve, almost glaring, and his friend sitting at a nearby table seemed to be on the verge of laughter. Steve immediately hated this guy.

"What the fuck is your problem? I don't even know you, fucking bastard!" he shouted, turning his head to find that the woman had left. That only pissed Steve off even more.

"The, the ash. On your sleeve! Definitely not from a cigar, only an imbe... Umm, idiot wouldn't see that!" he garbled, blundering closer to grab Steve's sleeve. His friend giggled at that.

Well, Steve was fed up, and by this time, too drunk to deal with this shithead. He shoved him away and got up to leave, wobbling just a bit, too pissed off to stay anymore.

"I know ash!" the man yelled, crowding him in and poking Steve's chest with every word he barked before pushing him back, "Don't – Tell – Me – I – Don't!"

Steve stumbled back a bit from the shove, but immediately took a swing at the son of a bitch. He missed and staggered forward into a really inconveniently placed table. There were too many tables. While he tried to right himself, the fuckup's friend had dragged him away, although he could still hear him mumbling something about ashtrays.

Damn it. This night was really not going Steve's way.

* * *

><p><em>Meanwhile at a crime scene<em>

In a dingy alleyway, Gregory Lestrade lit up a cigarette and sighed. Sure, it wasn't exactly the best protocol to light one up near a crime scene, but no one really cared. Ever since Sherlock had come back, most of his colleagues were either extremely awkward around him or simply chose not to talk to him. Lestrade supposed they didn't know what to say to him, whether to console him, congratulate him or just not mention it.

His thoughts turned back to the case, a very strange locked room murder. The girl had a very nasty head wound, yet there were no traces of blood in the room, and all entrances were locked. It was the perfect kind of case for the genius detective.

Lestrade was about to text Sherlock when he remembered John's very firm words to him. He'd told Lestrade that Sherlock was not to be called out to any crime scene on his stag night, even if it was a 10. Well, this case was certainly at least an 8.

Perhaps he'd become a tad bit lazy since Sherlock's miraculous return. Suddenly, the lengthy processes of analyzing evidence piece by piece and following up on leads seemed much more time-consuming and ineffectual.

Exhaling one last cloud of smoke, he ground the butt out on the alley wall. The wall was damaged enough as it was, no one would care about more marks on it. Lestrade pocketed his phone and trudged back to his decidedly frustrating job, hoping the two of them were having a better time than he was.

* * *

><p><em>Cab<em>

He remembered being desperately in love. Falling in love headfirst and wanting to consume the other person, to suck all of the love out of them and keep it all for yourself. Still, loving them more than that, and giving up anything and everything for your beloved.

H remembered that moment when you look at someone and seemingly realize that you love them more than you ever thought you could, more than you ever thought was possible. That time when you cherish each moment of your paramour's happiness as if it's precious, and go to any lengths to keep them that way. If it was in your power, they'd always be happy, because that's all you want.

Because their happiness is your only priority, your happiness doesn't matter. Regular love, sure, you crave that contentment, but this is different. If you are able to catch even a bit of the light that your love throws off, that's enough to sate you.

You never sacrifice anything for them. Sacrifice implies that you give up something you want to keep for yourself, which is just ridiculous. Everything you are is willingly their own to have, there is nothing you are unwilling to give to them. They have all of you, even if they don't realize it.

Perhaps such a love is doomed from the start. Unconditional, unfettered altruism can do only one thing, and that's to destroy the one who gives so much that there is nothing left of them. Still he remembers the feeling, and he believes that if such a love is requited, there's still hope for someone who loves so deeply, too deeply.

Looking back in his mirror, the cabbie was reminded of this passionate love. Eyes crinkling as he watches the two men giggle, he hoped they can find a middle ground for their love before it completely devastates both of them.

* * *

><p><em>221 Baker Street<em>

Martha Hudson grabbed the bag of rubbish and went to take it out to her bins. Sometimes she wondered what the bin-men thought, seeing everything her boys put out. Tottering out of 221A, she stopped in surprise at the sight of Sherlock and John crammed together on the stairs.

"Ooh! What are you doing back? I thought you were going to be out late."

"Ah, Hudders. What time is it?" Sherlock slurred, thoroughly drunk. She smiled fondly at him as she checked her watch.

"You've only been out two hours." she said, shaking her head in amusement as they try to get up, unsuccessfully to Sherlock's surprise.

As they walk up the stairs, she thinks it's truly a shame they didn't work out in the end. They were so happy together. She'd never seen Sherlock so content before John came into the picture, but that was over now. The end of an era indeed.

After taking out the trash, she settled in to watch some telly. She could hear the occasional thump from 221B, but she knew better than to ask. About mid-program, the doorbell rang and she went to grab it, opening the door to reveal a panicked young woman.

"Please, is Sherlock Holmes there? My name is Tessa, and I need his help."

Martha Hudson considered for a moment, before deciding. She could let her boys have a little peace and quiet for at least this night. The case could wait.

"I'm sorry, I'm afraid he's a bit busy right now."

"Are you sure? Please, it's very important."

"Perhaps you can try tomorrow." she said firmly before showing the young lady out.

Smiling affectionately at the quite audible giggle from 221B, she was sure Sherlock wouldn't be too upset over her withholding a case. After all, he had John to be with.

* * *

><p><em>221B<em>

"I'm you, aren't I?"

John laughed as he leaned back, saying "No, you idiot, you're not me!"

"Alright, alright, just one more question." Sherlock mumbled, propping himself up to look John in the eyes. "Do you like me?"

John quieted at this question, looking at the bottom of his glass before looking up to meet his eyes.

"More than anything and anyone in the whole world."

Sherlock thought for a moment, eyes narrowed before saying, "I'm Mary, aren't I?"

"No." John said before leaning forward to take the paper off his forehead. "No, you aren't."

As John came closer, so close he could feel his breath against his face, Sherlock couldn't hold himself back anymore. He knew it was wrong, he knew it was betraying Mary, but still he surged forward and kissed him.

It was awkward, lips and teeth knocking together as they both landed back in John's chair. It was all desperation and drunken haziness, yet it was still so _perfect_. When they broke apart for air, they could only stare at each other, Sherlock still half-sprawled on top of John.

"You're you." John breathed, holding up the crumpled Rizla paper. "It's always been you."

"John..." Sherlock whispered, head hanging down as he tried to think. What were they going to do? Thinking felt like wading through molasses, it seemed far easier to just melt into John's touch.

"I love you Sherlock, more than anything and anyone. It's always been you that I've loved." he said, his words slurring together.

Sherlock raised his head and studied John with wide eyes, saying "You're drunk. You won't even remember any of this in the morning."

"I know I won't remember this, so please, you have to promise to tell me. Tell me what happened, tell me I'm marrying the wrong person, that's all I want to hear from you. Please."

"I...promise." Sherlock lied, just as John's lips found his once more.

Sherlock just wanted this one solitary memory. He wanted one time that he could be selfish and take all of John that he wanted. Didn't he deserve to be selfish? No, probably not, but this one memory with John would be enough to get him through a future without John.

In the morning, John would remember nothing, he would get up and go home to Mary. They would have their domestic bliss, and Sherlock would watch it all from the sidelines.

Still, in just this one moment, he wanted to bathe in the light that is John's love, and keep it all for himself.

* * *

><p>Laying in bed, curled up next to Sherlock, he felt so warm and happy. Before falling asleep, wrapped up in those long limbs, John prayed that he would remember this bliss in the morning.<p>

He wouldn't.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: This was written for the Let's Write Sherlock challenge 14, which is still open! This was unbeta'd and unbritpicked, but I hope you enjoyed, sorry if it was a bit confusing. Reviews would be very much appreciated!**


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